When he entered the Guildhall, his sweet woodruff battled with the fish smell of lampreys. My little darlings, still about ten of them alive, lashed viciously in their tubs, wanting to suck the royal blood before he got them first, no doubt. Casting me a scornful look, Master Whitfrock sent a boy out with the lampreys, followed by a spiced red wine to clear the palate. But no, the king so loved his eels that he asked for more. He ate the entire pie.
I hastily prepared a jug of hypocras to clear his palate.
We then began his bird courses: lark in strawberry sauce, duck in honey-cream sauce, chicken in prune sauce. The ducks and chicken were relatively fresh, but the lark benefited greatly from the strawberries. The king then asked for more lampreys and was told there would be some delay, as we would have to prepare them. While I quickly smashed the heads of two more, emptied their thick bodies of blood, and sliced them on a board, Master Whitfrock stirred a sauce of pine nuts and parsley, for there was no time for a pie.
I marveled at the king’s appetite, for he ate all day long. Between courses, he drank red wine. His laughter grew louder; he banged on the table in pleasure. If King’s Lynn loved John, John certainly returned the admiration. At long last we began the dessert courses: plum and current tarts, pear with carob cream, a tricolored fig confection. The sun was low by the time he left the Guildhall.
Managing to evade Master Whitfrock, I sneaked out the back door. I threw a hooded cape over my finery—for there was now a chill in the air—and mounted a mare at the end of the king’s train. Though the reports had said he had three hundred people in his train, that wasn’t true. He did, however, have a vast number of animals, mules mostly, loaded with heavy packets—his treasure?—and it needed only one man to handle two beasts. We began a slow march through King’s Lynn.
We continued to walk after we’d passed through the city gate; the path was well defined, the earth—though a little damp—was hard-packed sand. Suddenly, we stopped. No one at the back could say why. Then we began to march again, this time for a shorter time before we again stopped. At last the reason reached us: The king had diarrhea, probably because he’d overeaten, as always.
The next time we stopped, however, the Wash appeared beside us, empty of water, a dry, harmless gulch. The king had decided to cross to save time. Now there was muttering: It was too late in the day, the tide was due, the king shouldn’t attempt such a dangerous route when he was having difficulties. I had brief glimpses of Enoch and Lord Robert with their wooden staffs. Then the word came back that guides were going to take the treasure across the Wash; the king would spend the night in nearby Wisbech and join with his train on the morrow.
The guides joined the king’s men to lead the mules; Enoch and Lord Robert worked steadily, though with strained faces. It was not our plan that they die in place of King John. And this was a late afternoon in October; the twilight would be short, the sun would set soon. Experienced guides grumbled in loud voices that the Wash had been dry since before the king had arrived—it was time for the tide. Didn’t they have tables? Enoch glanced briefly at me—he’d claimed the tables were mostly guesswork. So why did he, too, look worried?
Enoch and Lord Robert milled somewhere in the middle of about twenty other guides. All the men bound themselves together with long ropes, and each carried a flat board, presumably to use as a float. Enoch turned once, but he didn’t see me behind a large mule.
It took a long time for the treasure train to enter the Wash. The steep sides were treacherous—one mule went to his knees—and the bottom was less stable than it looked. Of course, the mules carried heavy loads, but even the men’s feet sank ankle-deep. Finally, however, the last mule was in the Wash and on its way.
Our much-diminished train moved slowly forward toward Wisbech. Though the king made no sign, I knew he’d seen me. We stopped frequently, and word came back that the king was suffering most terribly from indigestion. Indeed, as we passed places where he’d relieved himself, the foul odor of lamprey made everyone choke.
We didn’t enter the actual town of Wisbech after all. Lord Reginald of Lincoln had offered his castle, which lay between King’s Lynn and Wisbech for the king’s comfort. We were waved past the usual guarded gate in the wall to face a fortress pocked with arrow slits and not much more. We all recognized that the fortress was not more comfortable than Wisbeck, simply closer. By this time the king couldn’t control his agonized cries; his litter disappeared through the front entrance. The rest of us were led to the side ramp to accommodate our horses. Just as my mare reached the ramp, I heard the roar.
The Wash!
Everyone heard it. The silence in our ranks spoke louder than words: The train couldn’t possibly have gotten across in this short time. Then everyone stood back. Supported on two sides, John walked into the yard. He couldn’t see the Wash, but he must know. The king’s pale profile glistened with sweat; he couldn’t stand erect even with support. His valets lifted him in their arms to retreat to the castle.
The rest of us listened. Then a small group of knights galloped in the direction of the Wash. The roar grew. The knights returned after nightfall, their voices stilled. Yet one told us that never had the water been so deep, never so roilsome. The king’s entire train had disappeared. I couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think. Oh, Deus juva me, Enoch. Lord Robert. Dangerous, yes, but not this! Not death!
I followed the knights back to our ramp. I huddled in a dark corner and wept through the night. Though I was the only woman, no one paid me any heed. I was not the only person, however, who knew men who had crossed the Wash. One knight still sobbed at dawn.
When we left the castle before sunrise, John lay flat and silent on his litter.
The distance to Swineshead was said to be short, but a sorry train makes slow progress. Some knights wept for their king, who was obviously in bad condition; others wept for the lost train of beloved friends and servants. Perhaps a few wept for the treasure. I felt a desolation beyond death.
It was midafternoon by the time we entered the tiny village of Swineshead. The inn, as John had promised, was a sweet dwelling with two large maples with bright red leaves in front, though I doubt if the king noticed them as he was carried inside. The host had put out fresh cheese pies and ale, but the melancholy company ate and drank nothing. Again, though I was the only woman in the tavern, no one paid me any heed.
Then a stable boy ran into the room, panting and trying to speak in vain. Finally, he blurted it out: a few guides had survived the disaster!
Had any treasure been saved?
He didn’t know.
Shortly thereafter, two burly men appeared to tell us more: the guides—all but two—had managed to survive. Most of the king’s men and all of his mules had been sucked down by the treacherous sands and no one could rescue them, though many had tried. While the company wailed about the lost men and the lost treasure, I rose to see the men who were straggling into the inn.
Lord Robert touched my arm; Enoch stood behind him.
Both men wept as they told their tale. The mules had foundered, the crates had sunk, and many of the king’s men had thrashed through the muddy water in an effort to save something!
Six more guides stumbled in during their recital. Others, they said, had returned to their families at King’s Lynn. Enoch and Lord Robert huddled close to me, their bodies shaking. Neither could eat.
Now the company fell into profound melancholy for the king’s condition. A physician came from Lincoln, then priests. The king was very sick—should he be told of his loss?
Yes, he should.
One of his Norman routiers came back from his room: The king had taken his loss—all except his grandmother’s coronation gown—with surprising equanimity.
“Because there was no treasure,” Lord Robert whispered. “He spent it all.”
The routier continued that the king was praying for his soul, for he knew he was dying.
“Quhat soul?” Enoch whispered. “Be he prayin’ to aul
d Clootie?”
Since the king was so ill, a covered litter was fashioned to remove him to the bishop of Lincoln, who resided in Newark. When he was carried down the stairs, only about half the knights were still in the tavern.
“He’s a sinking ship,” whispered Lord Robert.
I stepped forward and touched John’s shoulder. He opened brilliant blue eyes.
“Alix,” he whispered. “Where were you?”
“I came here, Your Majesty, as you instructed me.”
He shook his head in vexation. “I meant in King’s Lynn. The lampreys.”
“You ate too many.”
“Oh yes, I ate too many. Well, never mind, I was going to do the same to you.”
“Do what?”
“Love you, of course.” A pain shook his body. “Will you kiss me?”
A request, not an order. I did so.
“Give me your hand.”
Again I did so; his were cold as ice. He continued to watch as I opened my palm; inside lay my pink diamond.
“But why . . . ?”
He smiled. “Because I do love you.” A spasm shook him. “I love England! You are England,” he whispered. “A wand of birch in the wind, silver reed in the . . .”
They carried him away.
Lord Robert, Enoch, and I rode out as soon as he left, though in a different direction.
“Weil, Ich be sorry fer the villain, no matter quhat,” Enoch said. “’Tis a turrible death.”
“Not so horrible as burning alive on a spit,” Lord Robert retorted. He grabbed my rein to put me on a narrow path. “This way to Dere Street.” We rode in single file. “At least his death was natural!” He suddenly laughed. “Natural! Damn bad luck that he caught the flux, though.” He shuddered. “That water in the Wash was cold.”
“What happened to the priest?” I asked.
“What priest? I saw no priest, did you, Enoch?”
Enoch didn’t answer. I let it pass.
“So, are we under French rule now?” I called to Lord Robert’s back. “What happened in Dover after I left? Did Prince Louis land safely?”
Lord Robert raised his hand. “King for ten heartbeats! The barons recognized—they decided—that they prefer England for the English! Enough of foreign rule!”
“Did they knw of your plan?”
“What plan?” He laughed. “However, the Duke of York joined the French. Eustace might have as well if he’d been alive, but maybe not. His biggest estate was in Normandy, you know, though he died fighting for the Scottish king. I heard you believed he’d gone over to John, Enoch. Not true.”
“Ich knowed he couldna follow John. I wish he war alive to see England governed by Magna Carta. He wuld ha’e bin vindicated.”
“Magna Carta was a failure,” I reminded him.
“Under King John, yes,” Lord Robert agreed. “We’ll push it through again, though, and this time without time limitations.”
“Aye,” Enoch nodded.
They would have to find a new scribe, for I would have “disappeared” in London.
We rode silently for a time.
Lord Robert pulled his steed level with Enoch’s. “King John had a young prince, Henry by name.”
I recalled the pale child at Dover who might not be John’s blood son.
“He’ll need a regent; we’ll press for the regent to sign.”
“Aye.” Enoch agreed.
We rode quietly again for a time.
Lord Robert slowed his steed. “John is dead.” He laughed again. “Think of it! We designed Magna Carta, the pope killed it, and now—with Henry—we can bring it back as a royal manifesto with an underage king!”
I thought of Theo.
His horse snorted. “This has been a good day for England.” His voice choked. “I can’t believe it.”
Aye, though for me, personally, John’s death was also a loss. Of Enoch. Of Wanthwaite.
Lord Robert reined his horse to a halt. “See that ridge yonder? It goes directly to what there is left of Dunmow, so if you’ll forgive me . . . Farewell, my friends. I must ride on that ridge to reach my bride!”
“Bride?”
“Lady Nicola.” He touched my chin. “Not so beautiful as you, my dear, but I do love her! And she loves me! Do you mind?” He laughed at my confusion. “She is your friend, after all!”
And a baby! He was an old man!
“Oh, I know I’m too old, but life is short and . . .” His voice shook.
We watched him disappear into the hills.
“He’s richt; he be followin’ his heart.”
“Is Wanthwaite closer by the ridge? Should you take it?”
“Dere Street be safer.”
He’d caught that you instead of we and emphasized his words. “We’ll pick up Dere Street yet today.”
“Aye, that seems reasonable.” Where he would turn north and I would go south.
Enoch and England.
Yet London was also England, wasn’t it? Hundreds of people must love it or they wouldn’t live there. And there were good people: Master Peterfee, my new employers in the jewelry trade. It was the people that counted after all; look at King’s Lynn. And there were all those greens we’d seen from the Thames boat.
And yet, how I did love Wanthwaite! The tall elms and maples against the endless English sky, salmon leaping in the Wanthwaite River, my parents, now Theo. Leith. And Enoch. I wished he hadn’t kissed me in the kitchen. A lump formed.
Yet I was still in the countryside, wasn’t I? Catch the moment! The deep sky slanted and birds were silent; they’d flown south. But wait, there was an English hare on his hind legs, brown with a white tail, nose twitching. He hopped away.
“Did ye see the rabbit?” Enoch asked.
“Aye.”
“Quhy did it lape away?”
I turned my head. “We should stop—’tis Haute Tierce.”
“Aye.”
We bent over a running stream to drink, then filled our methiers with bones Enoch supplied to purify the water, and let our horses drink. Enoch had taken two cheese pies from the inn in Swineshead. We both slept a short time, then remounted. Now, I thought, I must speak now.
He rode ahead of me except where our path widened, and then he rode beside me. I could sense his thoughts racing with mine: John was dead, and with him, this farce of pretending to be brother and sister. We’d made an agreement. I must tell him that I’d paid for our annulment, but I didn’t, not yet.
With the bones clinking in our methiers, we again slaked our thirst. I pretended to choke on a bone to cover my anguish.
We rode on slowly, still without speaking. In the distance, we heard singing: male travelers on Dere Street. We were almost there. Cows huddled for the night under an oak ahead, but sheep still grazed on a steep, dark green hill. Farewell, England.
“Enoch, do you remember when you accused me of going to the Church after we made our agreement?”
“Quhy do a hare hop?” he asked.
I started—had he gone totty? Or deaf?
“In Dunsmere, when the ecclesiastical court visited from Durham, remember?”
“Thar be sum law we doona knaw yit. Hares hop, people walk on twa legs, horses on four. ’Tis in each natures to move so. Natural law. Ond it applies to feelin’s.”
“Enoch, I beg you, don’t tease, not now. This is serious.”
“Dome fortes deme.”
And I stopped arguing, for we were saying the same thing: fate, fortune’s wheel.
“Aye, Enoch, that’s it! I was fated to return after you married! If you’d known I was alive . . . in any case, canon law grants you the annulment because that’s the law for female infidelity, and I paid for it.” I waited till I regained my voice. “It was very expensive—two gold pieces—but I did it!”
He seemed not to have heard. “Quhat did John gi’e ye?”
“A pink diamond, very valuable. Bonel gave it to me first.”
I handed it to him.
He seemed confused. “Did ye luv John becas he war Richard’s brudder?”
“Of course not! He murdered Theo!”
Murder. John, too, had been murdered. The murder of King John. Did “of” refer to Theo or to John himself?
“The diamond be mine,” Enoch said for the second time.
“Aye.”
“Waesucks!” He held it to the light. “Bonel ga’e it?”
“Aye, to put me in business in case . . .”
“Ah.” He turned away, then turned back. “Did Bonel tal ye?”
“Tell me what?”
“Quhat I sayed that day?”
The second night, when Bonel had been late. “No.”
“He war angry becas I raped ye ond made Leith.”
“And you did! Leith is proof!”
“Aye, that we mad houghmagandy. Boot Ich tald Bonel hu ye asked me to, begged me.”
I stopped my horse. What did he mean?
“Ich tald him hu ye sayed, Enoch ond England, Enoch ond England, ond ye sayed it agin ond agin as yif we war riding ond . . . I did it, Alix! Ich couldna help myself! ’Tis my nature—Ich canna live wi’out ye, ond . . .”
I stared at him wildly. Was it possible? Enoch and England—how else would he know?
And Bonel knew! He’d heard me say it and . . . that was why . . .
Enoch’s red-gold hair stood in a point like a beacon, his blue eyes were steady. Something inside me burst, and I began to scream.
“Waesucks, stop!” He put his arms around me.
“Wanthwaite?” I whimpered.
“Ich ha’e drawed plans; mayhap we con mak a country estate instead of a motte.”
“Aye. Oh, Enoch!”
His face came close—his lips—I was home! With Enoch, in England.
Much later, in the dark, he asked, “Ye sayed as hu the annulment cost twa gold pieces? Do ye think the priest would gi’ me the gold back again?”
The Prince of Poison Page 31
